Tuesday 1/23/2007 11:44:00 PM

I was swimming in the moat. Hiding under the drawbridge. Counting my castles out loud. Like stacking pennies in paper tubes. Even a lot didn't amount to much. But there is therapy in fruitless pursuits. There is solace in knowing you're poor. That all the money or anything the world has to offer can never make you any richer.

I was sitting at the back of the vault. Listening to the lock tick. An impervious metal heart documenting the eras between my bankruptcy and my wealth. One face at a time deposited into this void. To fill it in moments. To empty it in years.

Sages and fools each of us. For trying so many times to open those doors.

The painting on the ceiling have never been this close.

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